


What Matters Most

by Calacious



Category: General Hospital
Genre: AU, Big Brother Jason, Christmas, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Gift Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Mean Sonny, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 14:38:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9128059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: Spinelli really should not be out on such a cold evening (his doctor would kill him if he knew), but he has to pick up a gift for Stone Cold. Unfortunately, an unexpected encounter with Sonny leaves Spinelli a little worse for the wear.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suerum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suerum/gifts).



> I don't own the characters, and I don't make a profit (monetary or otherwise) through writing this.
> 
> Please forgive me for any errors. I wrote this on my tablet, and there are definite kinks to work out. My italics don't want to stay italicized, for example. 
> 
> AU: not set within the current happenings on the show.
> 
> Belated, Mele Kalikimaka, and have a Happy New Year.

Sonny shoved Spinelli away from him, a look of undisguised loathing on his face, and sent the younger man sprawling backwards on the icy sidewalk. Spinelli landed hard on his tailbone, and bit his lip to keep from verbally expressing his pain.  
  
He felt the vibrations from his impact with the cold, hard pavement throughout his body. It didn't help that he was suffering from a nasty chest cold that the doctor had warned him could easily turn into pneumonia if he didn't take proper care of himself. As a matter of fact, his doctor would chastise him if he knew that Spinelli was out, doing some last minute Christmas shopping on one of the coldest, wettest days on record in Port Charles history (it had been sleeting on and off for hours).  
  
Spinelli clutched his prized possession (his gift for Stone Cold) to his chest, and eyed the man who towered over him warily. Sonny's eyes were glittering with madness and anger. The man's cheeks were red, whether from exposure to the bitter cold elements (the man wasn't even wearing a coat) or anger, was anyone's guess, though Spinelli suspected that it was a combination of both.  
  
Spinelli wasn't sure what he should do -- stay put on the cold sidewalk until Sonny left, get to his feet, or attempt to engage in conversation with the irate man who was still giving him the evil eye.  
  
"Mr. Sir," Spinelli said, keeping his voice pitched low and soothing, hoping it wouldn’t set Sonny off. When he took a breath to continue his attempt to placate the upset man, he broke into a coughing fit that burned his lungs, and left him feeling as weak as that newborn kitten (Figaro) he'd snuck into the penthouse a couple of weeks ago.  
  
Sonny was saying something, gesticulating angrily to punctuate whatever it was that he was saying, but Spinelli heard none of it over the pounding of his heart and the rattling in his chest. He looked up at the man, trying to follow Sonny’s hands and read the man's lips, and failed miserably in his effort to do so.  
  
Feeling dizzy and way too hot for the cold December evening, Spinelli closed his eyes for what was supposed to be just a brief moment. Some of Sonny's words came through now that his eyes were closed, though it was hard for Spinelli to follow the other man's train of thought. It was either Sonny, or he, who had derailed. Spinelli suspected that, given how terrible he felt (cement in his chest and an organ grinding monkey tinkering with his heart and lungs) it was him who was going off the rails with regard to the disjointed train of thought.  
  
“Thoughtless...reckless...never look where you're going...your fault...Santa...miss the ball...fault...incompetent...moronic...fuck...”  
  
Spinelli felt something cool on his cheek, and leaned into it. A second before he could open his eyes to see the source of the coolness, there was a sharp sting on his cheek, and his head snapped to the side. Another stinging slap (Spinelli recognized it for what it was now) had his head jerking to the other side, and he blinked his eyes open.  
  
It was hard to focus at first. Spinelli’s ears were ringing, and his vision was swimming. He was dizzy. When his eyes finally decided to cooperate, he saw Sonny’s mouth, lips pursed in a harsh line. The man was regarding him with narrowed eyes from his crouch in front of Spinelli.  
  
“You with me now?” Sonny’s voice was soft, yet harsh.  
  
Swallowing, Spinelli suppressed a cough, and nodded. “S...sorry. That is the Jackal apologizes for...for this series of most inconvenient of events leading to...leading to Mr. Sir’s unhappy circumstances.”  
  
Sonny raised an eyebrow, and frowned. His dark eyes sparkled with something that Spinelli could not identify, and the man held a hand out to him. At first, all Spinelli could do was stare dumbly at the proffered hand. He still felt the sting from the double slap on his cheeks. The palm of Sonny’s hand was pink, and Spinelli wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with the hand.  
  
“C’mon,” Sonny said, voice tight with something that might have been anger or disappointment. “Take my hand. I ain’t gonna bite.”  
  
Spinelli frowned at the offered hand, reluctant to trust the statement, and the man behind the statement, and even more reluctant to loosen his hold on his gift for Stone Cold. It wasn’t much, and Spinelli knew that Stone Cold probably hadn’t gotten him anything for Christmas, but still, it was what had brought him out of the warmth, and safety of the penthouse and into the harsh cold air of Port Charles, and he did not want to lose it over something like this.  
  
“I promise,” Sonny said, voice a little softer than it had been earlier. “I didn’t mean to...I just. It’s been one of those days, you know?”  
  
The man’s eyes still glittered, but there was something other than anger and madness within their glittering depths, and Spinelli uncurled one of his hands from around the box he held close to his chest. It was hard to trust the man who’d just knocked him flat on his ass and blamed him for what had happened, but Spinelli was having a hard time feeling said ass and he was starting to lose feeling in his toes, so he placed his hand in Sonny’s, and held his breath as he was hauled to his feet.  
  
For a few seconds, the world seemed to spin, and it was only Sonny’s arm around his waist that was keeping Spinelli upright. It was a strange, bizarre twist in events, and Spinelli was starting to wonder if he hadn’t imagined the initial push that had placed him on the unforgiving sidewalk in the first place.  
  
“Shit,” Sonny’s whispered expletive was a breath of warmth against Spinelli’s cheek that made Spinelli more aware of the cold, and just how violently he was shivering.  
  
“Shit, shit, shit.”  
  
Spinelli would have laughed at how worried Sonny sounded, especially given how Spinelli had ended up in this particular state by the man’s own doing, had he been able to catch his breath without coughing. It was ridiculous for Sonny to be so worried over Spinelli’s well being when the man cared nothing for him outside of what Spinelli could provide for him using his computer skills.  
  
Spinelli attempted to stand on his own, and distance himself from Sonny, but the man refused to release his hold on his waist, and Spinelli shivered at the cold, at the steel strength of Sonny’s iron-like grip on him. He just wanted to close his eyes and wish for a fresh start to the day. He’d order a gift for Stone Cold online, and present him with a heartfelt card that expressed his sorrow that the gift would be late, and a brief not that conveyed just how much Spinelli valued their friendship, as one-sided as it was at times.  
  
Spinelli knew that Stone Cold valued him for more than his computer hacking capabilities, even if the man didn’t come out and say it much (ever). Stone Cold’s appreciation of Spinelli wasn’t something that could be measured in words, but rather in actions where reciprocation was not expected.  
  
Stone Cold draping a blanket over him when he’d fallen asleep on the couch while working on a case, or on something for Sonny, or Stone Cold.  
  
Stone Cold wordlessly plopping a plate of food in front of him, and standing there until Spinelli started eating, a crooked almost smile on his face and nod of approval at Spinelli’s muffled, “Thanks”.  
  
All of the times that Stone Cold had been there for him, a quiet, stolid presence in the midst of personal turmoil, were more than Spinelli could count, which is why he had braved the cold and the wrath of his doctor to purchase the gift that he still held securely to his chest. A simple gold watch, engraved with the words: Stone Cold, a truer friend no one could know.  
  
“C’mon, kid, don’t fight me.” Sonny’s voice was grating, an angry bee buzzing inside of Spinelli’s pounding skull, and Spinelli didn’t want the irascible man’s help, even if he needed the aid of someone’s capable hand to stand upright at the moment.  
  
“Sonny,” Stone Cold’s voice cut through the frigid air like a bullet through bone, sharp and barking, and Spinelli thought he was hearing things, because Stone Cold was back at the penthouse unwilling to venture forth on such a dark and dismal evening. At least he had been last Spinelli had seen him.  
  
Spinelli’s head spun as he attempted to turn around to see if he was just imagining his mentor’s voice, or if the man was really there, in the flesh, out on such a dreary evening in spite of his resolve to stay indoors. There was Stone Cold, breath a foggy mask between them, a scowl affixed to his face, blue eyes hard and colder than the air itself.  
  
His glare was directed, not at Spinelli, but at Sonny, and Spinelli wasn’t sure what to make of it, because he’d never seen that particular look directed at Sonny’s before. It was a look that was typically reserved for enemies, and Spinelli when he did something that was dangerous and foolish, something that could have (but thankfully hadn’t as of yet) cost him his life. Spinelli’s expecting to be on the receiving end of that look before the night’s over, and shivers at the realization that, good intentions aside, he really did put his life (unnecessarily) in danger and for something that Stone Cold would (probably) barely acknowledge.  
  
“Hand Spinelli over,” Stone Cold said. His voice was sharp and crystalline, and Spinelli almost got whiplash from looking between his mentor and the man who had a tight grip on his waist that only seemed to tighten at the command.  
  
“I’ve got him,” Sonny said, and Spinelli could have sworn that the man was pouting, which could only mean one thing. He had a fever and was hallucinating, and needed to go to the hospital, stat.  
  
“I heard everything, Sonny,” Stone Cold said, and Spinelli felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, even though the growled words weren’t directed at him.  
  
“Come on, Jason, you know that I didn’t mean any of it. You know how the kid is. And you know what’s been going on in my life lately. The kid wasn’t even looking where he was going. He’s --”  
  
“He’s my friend,” Stone Cold said, cutting Sonny off mid-sentence, and causing, not only Sonny’s, but also Spinelli’s, jaw to drop. “He’s my friend, and I think you’ve done enough damage for one night. Let him go.”  
  
Spinelli looked from Stone Cold to Sonny, and had to do a double-take at the stubborn looks on both of their faces, at the way that Sonny tightened his grip on his waist for a second time, and almost seemed to dare Stone Cold to ‘come and get him’. Spinelli giggled at the insane thought that the two men were fighting over him, like he was something worth fighting over, like boys fought over girls in middle and high school.  
  
His giggles turned into hacking coughs that made him double over, and it was Stone Cold’s arms that wrapped around him that held him upright, though Sonny’s hand was still around him as well. Spinelli’s head ached, and his throat felt like it was filled with glass. His chest was on fire, and he wanted to do nothing more than lie down, even on the cold cement, and close his eyes to sleep, and hopefully wake up to find that this entire night had been nothing more than a cough syrup inspired fever dream.  
  
“Spinelli?” Stone Cold’s lips were brushing against his ear, and his breath was a welcome warmth. “You okay?”  
  
Feeling faint, and shaky, and less okay than he had at the start of his Christmas errand, Spinelli nodded, and rested his forehead against the solid brick of Stone Cold’s chest. “‘m fine,” he managed to whisper once his coughing fit had subsided.  
  
Spinelli curled the fingers of the hand that wasn’t holding Stone Cold’s gift into the leather of Stone Cold’s jacket, and he breathed in the familiar scent of leather, spice, and earth that defined his friend. It was a heady scent, and one that always made Spinelli think of home.  
  
“Come on, let’s get you home,” Stone Cold said. “Sonny, we’ll talk later.” It sounded like a threat, and Spinelli was grateful when the mob boss finally released the hold that he had on him.  
  
Stone Cold reached into Spinelli's back pocket. It was a little awkward, and Spinelli's skin prickled with goosebumps as Stone Cold's fingers inadvertently tickled his backside.  
  
Confused, Spinelli held his breath,eyes locked on Stone Cold's face as the man struggled with something in Spinelli's right back pocket. Stone Cold's lips twisted upward in a small, almost smile of triumph as he pulled Spinelli's phone out of the pocket and hit the ‘end call’ button.  
  
“You butt dialed me,” he said, and he breathed out a sigh of what Spinelli thought might be relief.  
  
Stone Cold put Spinelli's phone into his own pocket and then turned Spinelli around. Spinelli wobbled for a moment, but Stone Cold held him fast, and had Spinelli tucked to his side quicker than Spinelli could really process what was happening.  
  
Before Spinelli knew it, he was secured in the passenger’s seat of Stone Cold’s SUV, seat belt holding him in place. The heater was spilling hot air out of the vents, and Spinelli stretched his hands out toward the source of the heat, allowing the treasured gift to rest in his lap, knowing that it would be safe, much as he was, well within Stone Cold's reach.  
  
Spinelli didn't remember the ride home, or the elevator ride up to the penthouse. He didn't remember how he got into bed, blankets tucked up beneath his chin, or how he'd managed to take his medicine, and put his gift (wrapped by a salesperson at the store) beneath the small tree that Stone Cold had (with only a small amount of grumbling) allowed in the penthouse.  
  
He didn’t remember much of the next few days, though he had vague recollections of waking, often, in a fevered state, talking nonsense, and alternately clutching to Stone Cold as though the man were a lifeline. In many respects the man had been just that for him over the years.  
  
He didn't remember feeding Figaro, knew, instinctively that it had been Stone Cold who had started taking care of the cat, getting the stowaway kitten a basket filled with cat toys, and fleece, to sleep in, though the cat preferred to sleep on the bed, curled up either on top of, or beside his feverish master.  
  
He didn't remember much of anything, except in starts and fits, and odd images that seemed surreal, after Stone Cold's valiant rescue of him from the elements, and Sonny's dubious, guilt-inspired help. Didn’t remember house visits from the doctor, or Stone Cold sitting by his bed, watching over him at night. Everything felt as though it was happening in a dream.  
  
The next thing he remembered clearly was waking up, four days after Christmas, if the date on his phone was accurate, feeling warm, but not overly so, Figaro a purring weight on his chest, and a glass half full of water on the bedside table. There was a note there, too, written in tidy, impeccable lettering.  
  
_STAY IN BED. IF YOU NEED ANYTHING, TEXT._  
  
Spinelli frowned and blinked at the message. He sipped the water. It felt good on his slightly dry throat. His chest and throat felt sore, but they no longer ached, or felt like they were on fire as they had before. He felt less achy overall.  
  
He absentmindedly stroked Figaro’s fur, eyes going wide as he realized that the kitten's presence in the penthouse was no longer a secret. His panic subsided when he saw the basket out of the corner of his eye, as well as the spiked leather collar (with a bell) that Figaro was wearing. He fingered the diamond shaped tag that hung from the collar, and smiled. Warmth spread through his chest as he read the inscription there, and realized that some of what he’d thought he’d dreamt hadn’t been a dream afterall.  
  
Not only did the diamond shaped tag list the cat's name (apparently Spinelli had talked in his fevered state), but it also had Spinelli's contact information, a date for a rabies vaccination (two days ago), and it listed the cat as neutered. Everything that, had he been allowed to keep the kitten, Spinelli had planned to do in the new year.  
  
Though Spinelli knew that, for all intents and purposes, he'd essentially been asleep for the past week, he was tired. Yawning, and stretching, and not giving much thought to why he didn't feel gross or grimy, or why the sheets felt, and smelled, fresh, Spinelli snuggled into his pillows and allowed sleep to claim him.  
  
The next time he woke, it was to a gentle prodding. He was plied with soup, juice, and medicine, and aided in a short walk to the bathroom. It felt like he was sleepwalking, and for the next day and a half, Spinelli guessed that he was, in essence sleepwalking with Stone Cold's help. He faded in and out of consciousness, not fully waking again until the morning of New Year’s Eve.  
  
“You with me, Spinelli?” Stone Cold asked, and Spinelli got the impression that the man had been asking that question a lot over the past week.  
  
Stretching, Spinelli took a deep breath and smiled when there was no rattle to accompany the action. His chest didn’t feel tight, and he could breathe freely.  
  
“Sorry,” Spinelli said, in lieu of answering Stone Cold’s question outright. “The Jackal apologizes for being such a burden, especially over the holidays.”  
  
The momentary of look that crossed Stone Cold’s face was quickly followed by a frown. The man shook his head, and gave Spinelli a look that was hard for the younger man to decipher. It was a look that he thought he’d seen on the man’s face before, when talking about one of the few people that he loved -- like Carly, and Sam, Michael, and Morgan. Others that were within Stone Cold’s tight circle of loved ones.  
  
“You weren’t a burden, Spinelli,” Stone Cold said. He reached over and squeezed Spinelli’s shoulder. “You aren’t a burden. You’re important to me, Spinelli.”  
  
Spinelli felt heat, not caused by fever, rising to his cheeks, and he looked down at his hands, which were twined in Figaro’s fur. He wasn’t sure what to say.  
  
“The Jackal is --”  
  
“Don’t apologize,” Stone Cold cut him off, squeezing Spinelli’s shoulder once more. “Don’t apologize for almost catching your death on the coldest night of Port Charles’ history to date while getting me a present. Spinelli, I know I don’t say it often, but you’re important to me. Your life matters more than, more than some Christmas present.”  
  
Spinelli’s breath caught in his throat, and he had to bite his lip to keep from apologizing again. Figaro made a disgruntled sound, and nipped at one of Spinelli’s fingers when he accidently dug them into the cat’s fur a little too hard. Spinelli loosened his grip on the kitten, and Figaro’s tongue brushed over the finger that he’d delivered a warning nip to earlier, quickly forgiving Spinelli, and settling down once more to purr happily.  
  
“You matter, Spinelli,” Stone Cold repeated. “I’m not good with words, but I do care about you. I meant it when I said that you’re my friend. You’re probably the best friend that I have.”  
  
Spinelli opened his mouth, and abruptly closed it as his throat choked up around the words that he wanted to say. He chanced a look at Stone Cold, the man’s eyes were filled with that love that Spinelli had seen expressed for others. It was overwhelming, and, for once, words failed him.  
  
“Spinelli, even if I don’t say it, know it, here,” Stone Cold said, tapping Spinelli’s temple, and then his sternum, above his heart. “And, here.”  
  
It was a rare display of emotion from the other man, and one that Spinelli knew would not be repeated any time soon. This was a once in a lifetime moment, one that he selfishly wanted to last for far longer than he knew it would. Spinelli captured the man’s hand as it hovered over his heart and held it there for a few moments longer before releasing it, heart swelling to overflowing with love and a sense of kinship.  
  
Later that day, with Stone Cold’s help, Spinelli made it down the stairs and to the couch where he was propped up with a great many pillows. Figaro lay within a nest of blankets on Spinelli’s lap, and Stone Cold sat beside him.  
  
They exchanged Christmas presents, though Spinelli silently reflected that he’d already received everything he’d ever wanted when Stone Cold had boldly declared them friends in front of Sonny, and then in private. Even the man’s acceptance of Figaro, though Spinelli doubted that the man liked cats at all, was a gift. He didn’t need the Swiss army knife, engraved with the Latin word for true friend, Amicus, though it was, and would be a good reminder, or the collector’s edition of a set of films that he’d been deliberating about purchasing over for the past few months.  
  
“Thank you, Spinelli,” Stone Cold said, voice quiet as he read the engraving on the watch, and then placed it on his wrist.  
  
He pulled Spinelli into a one armed hug, displacing Figaro, and earning a low growl of complaint from the kitten who quickly resumed his spot once Stone Cold settled back against the couch, arm slung around Spinelli’s shoulders.  
  
“Merry Christmas, Stone Cold,” Spinelli said. “And happy New Year.”  
  
“Merry Christmas, and happy New Year,” Stone Cold said, and he turned his attention to the TV, which showed the New Year’s Rockin’ Eve party in full swing in Times Square.  
  
There were still several hours to go before the ball dropped. Spinelli rested his head against Stone Cold’s shoulder. They shared a bowl of buttery popcorn. Instead of his customary orange soda, Spinelli had juice, while Stone Cold drank beer.  
  
It was a low key New Year’s Eve, free of drama and the social pressures that often accompany the long awaited event. Though it was just the two of them, and Spinelli fell asleep well before the ball dropped, head nestled against Stone Cold’s shoulder, hand resting on Figaro’s back; it was the best New Year’s Eve that Spinelli had experienced in a long time; one he’d remember for years to come.  
  
January first found Spinelli tucked into bed, a purring Figaro curled up at his side. He felt rested, ready to tackle the new year that lay ahead, no matter what it may have in store for him.


End file.
